The sky is a greater
musician than I:the rains plays pizzicato on
the rooftopswith no sign of fatigue;clouds hit every note I misson my aging piano,and crush my seasoned flourisheswith glissandos of thunderand chords of ragged lightning.

Liebschen,I have taught you thechoreography of love,the dance steps of passion;the sly tilt of your headas the rolled notes flow from
your throat.

But nothing flows to me,though the poses you strike,like the lightning's fitful
flashes,compel the night sky to respond.

How can I grant the one giftGod has not granted in life,and may not in death:the love that is not choreographed,the dance that is not taught?

Your headache is gone, liebschen
-it lies in my heart;but, mesmerized, you cannot
feel theslow, peaceful music of the
rainsongrolling down the windows of
the sky;